Classic Poem

Of this that I have written none is mine,
Save only as my clouded sense has heard
And blurred with ineffectual rhyme the Word
Whose virgin silence was and is divine.
The veins of God are filled with golden wine
Perturbed with splendour, and this world we dream
Around our tinsel lives endows a theme
Of music—Hearken! for its voice is thine!
The Youth and Beauty of the earlier earth
Have never died, but on the breast of song
They lie like flowers—'tis we that agonize!
And in the gray senescence of our birth
Erase the soul whose voice condemns the wrong,
And move our fingers through the dust we prize.